could not fly out of that personality like a bird out of its cage. There
on the palliasse in the miserable cell were the same long limbs, the
broad shoulders, the grimy face with the three days' growth of stubbly
beard--the whole wretched personality of Paul Mole, in fact, which hid
the exquisite one of Sir Percy Blakeney, Bart. And yet! ...

A cold sweat ran down Chauvelin's spine as he gazed, mute and immovable,
into those fish-like, bleary eyes, which were not--no! they were not
those of the real Scarlet Pimpernel.

The whole situation became dreamlike, almost absurd. Chauvelin was not
the man for such a mock-heroic, melodramatic situation. Commonsense,
reason, his own cool powers of deliberation, would soon reassert
themselves. But for the moment he was dazed. He had worked too hard, no
doubt; had yielded too much to excitement, to triumph, and to hate. He
turned to Hebert, who was standing stolidly by, gave him a few curt
orders in a clear and well-pitched voice. Then he walked out of the
cell, without bestowing another look on the prisoner.

Mole had once more turned over on his palliasse and, apparently, had
gone to sleep. Hebert, with a strange and puzzled laugh, followed his
chief out of the cell.

XI

At first Chauvelin had the wish to go back and see the Public
Prosecutor--to speak with him--to tell him--what? Yes, what? That he,
Chauvelin, had all of a sudden been assailed with the same doubts which
already had worried Hebert and the others?--that he had told a
deliberate lie when he stated that the incriminating doggerel rhyme had